Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

“Fifty-fifty, I’d say.”

Howard runs his tongue over his teeth. “How much is she looking for, and what does she intend to do should you not meet her demands?”

“One hundred thousand. Or she goes public, to whoever’ll pay the most for the story.”

“I see. Not very imaginative, is she?”

“I’m sorry?”

“If I were her I would have asked for at least a million. And how do we know she won’t take the money and sell her story, anyway?”

“She said she wouldn’t do that,” Bridget says.

Howard leans back in his chair and opens his arms. “Ahh, well then, nothing to worry about.”

“I know what you’re thinking. That she’ll come back again and again, always asking for money.”

“I think that’s very likely, Bridget. Perhaps, with the right degree of persuasion, she can be happy with one reasonable sum. And then she agrees to go away, and we never hear from her again.”

Bridget sighs. “I knew you’d know how to handle this. You’re just so…so cool and collected about these things.”

“It’s all about putting out fires, my dear. We want to douse this one before it consumes an entire forest, that’s all.”

“Howard, I don’t want Morris to know about this. I mean, Morris and I have been very frank with each other about our…idiosyncrasies, but he doesn’t have any idea that I’ve seen someone else since we were married. You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

He shakes his head and reaches out to touch her hand. “What purpose would that serve? I love you both too much to do that. You have a beautiful future ahead of you if you learn to control your…impulses.”

“It was a slip,” she says. “It’s never going to happen again.”

“Of course not,” he says, still patting her hand, “because I will not-repeat, not-allow anyone to get in the way of Morris’s destiny, and that includes you. So if there is a repeat of this kind of behavior, then I will personally strangle you with your own brassiere, chop you into bits, feed you to the Central Park squirrels, and find a way to pin the whole thing on your husband’s opponent. Is that clear?”

Bridget nods. “Perfectly.”

“We’d like to come in and speak with you,” FBI Agent Parker said. She wasn’t asking.

“What’s this about?”

“We’ll discuss it with you inside.”

I asked to see their IDs, which they both flashed at me, then motioned for the two of them to enter the house. I gestured toward the living room couch and chairs, but they chose to stand. I did the same.

“We need to see some identification,” Driscoll said.

“Do I need a lawyer or something?”

“We’d just like to establish exactly who we’re talking with,” Parker said.

Not knowing whether I should cooperate or not, but fearing the consequences of being disagreeable, I reached around for my wallet and dug out my driver’s license. Parker took it in her hand.

“You’re Mr. Kilbride,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“ Ray Kilbride.”

“Yes.”

“You ever go by any other names?” she asked. There was an accusing tone in her voice, as though she suspected me of having a raft of aliases.

“No. Of course not.”

“What do you do, Mr. Kilbride?”

“I’m an artist. An illustrator.”

“And just what kind of things do you illustrate?” Agent Parker asked. Her tone suggested she was probably thinking porno comics.

“My work’s appeared in newspapers, magazines, Web sites. I had something in the Times Book Review the other week.”

“So, if you do work for a Web site, I guess you do a lot of your work on the computer.”

“Sure,” I said.

“And you live out here and do that?”

“I don’t live here. I live in Burlington.”

Agent Driscoll stepped in. “Then whose house is this?”

“It’s my father’s.” I cleared my throat. “It was my father’s.”

“What’s that mean?” Agent Parker snapped.

“It means he’s dead,” I snapped back, looking her right in the eye. I’d thought that might put her in her place, however briefly, but it didn’t faze her.

“What happened to your father?”

“He died in an accident out back of the house a few days ago. A lawn tractor rolled on him and killed him. His name was Adam Kilbride.”

Agent Driscoll said, “Did your father have a computer?”

I shook my head, still wondering what the hell this was about. It should have bit me by now. “What? Yes, he did. A laptop.”

Agent Parker had her notebook out. “What day did your father die?”

“Friday, May fourth.”

She nudged her partner with her elbow, showed her notebook to him. “Messages that day, and since.”

Now I was getting it.

“You’re Ray, and your father was Adam,” Agent Parker said. “Is there a Thomas Kilbride who resides here?”

“Yes.”

“And what would his relationship be to you?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Is he here now?” Driscoll asked.

“Yes,” I said again. “He’s upstairs.” I was already ill at ease, but my discomfort had now multiplied exponentially. What the hell had Thomas done to bring the FBI down on us? And how was he going to react when he learned that they were here to see him? “My brother stays in his room most of the day. I don’t know what you want with him, but he’s absolutely harmless.”

“What’s he doing in his room?” Parker asked.

“He’s on his computer.”

“He’s on it a lot, is he?” she asked.

“Look, my brother has certain psychiatric issues. He prefers to spend a lot of time on his own.”

“What sort of psychiatric issues?” Driscoll asked.

“Nothing that anyone else needs to worry about,” I said. “He’s got his problems, but he never bothers anyone. He’s very…docile, basically.”

“But he likes to send e-mails,” Parker said.

This wasn’t getting any better. “What kind of e-mails?”

“Do you monitor your brother’s communications?” Driscoll asked.

“What? No. I don’t. I’m not even aware of his communications. I told you he keeps to himself.”

“Are you aware that Thomas Kilbride has been e-mailing the Central Intelligence Agency on a regular basis?”

“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“And that many of these messages have been addressed to former president Bill Clinton?”

I felt my insides liquefying. “Please tell me these were not threatening messages. That you’re not here to arrest him or anything.”

The two glanced at each other, exchanging some unspoken decision, and Parker said, “No, not threatening. But…concerning. You want to call him down or shall we go upstairs and get him?”

I hung my head and shook it. “Wait here.”

I went upstairs, opened Thomas’s door without knocking.

“It’s too soon for me to start dinner,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

“I need you to come downstairs, Thomas,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You have visitors.”

I expected him to ask who, but instead he just said, “Oh.” He stood from the chair, and as he was heading for the hall I grabbed him gently by the arm.

“They’re government people,” I warned him.

That stopped him. It took a second to register, and then he nodded quickly a couple of times, as though he’d been expecting this to happen sooner or later. “Oh,” he said. “That’s great.”

“Thomas, it’s not great. What the hell kind of messages have you been sending to the CIA?”

“Progress reports,” he said, and slipped past me for the stairs. Once he hit the living room, he went straight for them, the woman agent first, then Driscoll, shaking hands.